Unhealthy Addictions
by Mei Hitokiri
Summary: Maybe he's addicted and out of control, but he's the drug that keeps him from dying. [Sherlock/Mycroft. Don't like, don't read.]


**Unhealthy Addictions**

Anthea didn't want to have to deliver the information she had just received to her boss. Mycroft may not show his emotions, but she knew him well enough… no. Nobody knew him well. She had, however, known him long enough to know that he had a violent temper on him.

Her knock on the solid oak door was answered promptly, and she opened it in a smooth motion. Mycroft was sat at his desk, a plain manila folder emblazoned with the words "TOP SECRET" in bold red letters open in front of him.

"Anthea?" His gaze was unwavering, completely devoid of any emotion, bored, and utterly intimidating.

"Sir. The reports from Merton Street have just been sent through. Urgency was signalled as for your immediate attention." There was a flicker; only visible to someone that was looking for it, in Mycroft's eyes. That was almost more dangerous, more terrifying than the usual practised neutrality.

"Have them sent through, would you?" He closed the folder with an ominous rustle of paper. Anthea didn't say anything. She wasn't paid to. She backed out of the room to her desk, set up the link, then closed down the feed. This was too personal for even her to see. Moments later there was a flurry of movement and Mycroft steamed out of his office. "Postpone all appointments and have my car ready." Anthea glanced at his diary.

"Sir. You've a meeting with the Iranian Ambassador at two, to discuss their application for a nuclear weapons program." Mycroft frowned but waved her off. In all the years she had worked for Mycroft Holmes, he had only ever suspended his diary twice. The first had been early in his career. She thought it to be the first time Mycroft had seen the physical (as opposed to the deduced) evidence of his brother's drug usage, but she wasn't certain. The second had been when Sherlock had overdosed. Mycroft had been so vulnerable – he had blamed himself for not seeing it as a natural progression of Sherlock's quest for excitement. For him to clear his diary without having checked his appointments…? Something must be truly wrong.

Mycroft's Jaguar was waiting for him outside, engine purring. He did up his seatbelt with his left hand as he pulled away. The London traffic was relatively light and Mycroft held no regard for speed limits or courteous driving as he tore across the city. One of his men already sat across the road, and when he pulled to a stop they very discreetly got up and moved away. He used a key that Sherlock didn't know he had to open the door and stepped quietly up the stairs. The block of flats was horrific; dingy, damp, moulding. His brother would have to move again. He didn't bother knocking on the door to Sherlock's apartment, just forced it open. The lock was loose and superficial, giving easily to the heel of Mycroft's hand-made patent leather shoes. On the ragged, stained sofa, Sherlock barely moved.

"Put it down, Sherlock." His tone was saturated in icy command, but between them it might as well have cracked. His brother gave him a non-committal grunt, but didn't move. "Sherlock. I thought we were past this. Put it down." This time he received a derisive laugh from the younger.

"It's an addiction, Mycroft. It doesn't just go away." Mycroft stepped around the sofa to stand in front of his brother. Sherlock looked like a man scarred. He was in pyjama bottoms; filthy and matted with God-knows what. He was shirtless, a tourniquet loose around his left bicep and a pre-prepared syringe in his right hand. His eyes were still bright – he hadn't injected yet – but his breathing was shallow. Mycroft knelt and reached forward to touch Sherlock's hand; gently and without pressure. The skin was icy to the touch. When he spoke, Mycroft's voice was soft and hushed.

"You don't need it, Bratik. It doesn't control you." Sherlock turned his face to look at his brother.

"It's been a long time since you called me that." Sherlock's expression reminded him of a broken eleven-year-old, desperately trying to stop his brother going to University.

"But it's still true." Mycroft's fingers smoothed over Sherlock's hand and along his fingers. "You're always my little brother; I'm always here for you when you need me." Sherlock's grip slackened and Mycroft eased the syringe out of his hand. He looked for somewhere to discard it and found nowhere so threw it to an unseen corner of the room. His head snapped up as long, slender fingers gripped his arm.

"Take me away from here, My." Sherlock pleaded. His eyes were glistening with unshed tears. Mycroft smiled sadly.

"Of course." He stood and offered a hand to his brother. Sherlock glanced away and then back at Mycroft. He didn't need to ask for what he wanted, because his brother could read it. Bending at the knee, he gathered Sherlock's gangly form into his arms. Without looking back, he strode from the flat. He would have it torched later, and pay to replace anything lost.

There was a driver sitting in his car, the engine running. It wouldn't be the most private of forums, but at least he could stay with his brother. Sherlock curled his body up on the seat, his head rested on Mycroft's chest. Mycroft's hands ran through his hair, across his back and down his arms; apologising and comforting with his touch.

"You can stay at mine until we find you a new place. And I'll take you to the tailor tomorrow to get you some new clothes. I'm not certain anything of mine will fit you, but Anthea can get you the basics tonight." Mycroft was talking for the sake of talking, not wanting the silence to hang heavy. For his part, Sherlock just sat there, bringing his hand up to rest over Mycroft's heart.

When they pulled up, Mycroft draped his jacket over Sherlock's bare shoulders and carried him into the apartment. He went to set his brother down on the sofa, but Sherlock gripped his shirt. With a whispered reassurance, Mycroft hugged him closer and carried him to the bathroom. On his way past he flicked the thermostat up.

In the bathroom he sat Sherlock on a pile of towels and began to run a bath. The sound of his brother stripping was unmistakable, and by the time the bath was full Sherlock had begun to fidget agitatedly.

"Come on then." Sherlock shot Mycroft a puzzled look. "Get in the bath." Sherlock stepped closer and hesitated.

"Are you staying?" Mycroft frowned.

"Do you want me to?" In answer, Sherlock stepped into the bath and sank completely under the water. When he surfaced again, Mycroft was chuckling. "You are supposed to remove your underwear first." Sherlock pulled a face and lay back. Without the baggy clothing to hide his frame Sherlock looked almost emaciated, to his brother's horror. Taking the shampoo, Mycroft worked a lather up and began to wash Sherlock's hair. As a child he had had shoulder-length hair; but had hated taking care of it. He had, however, loved having the curls gently combed through. A fair few times, Sherlock had fallen asleep on his lap as Mycroft had brushed his hair. "Rinse."

Dutifully, Sherlock dunked his head under the water to wash out the suds. Mycroft returned to washing his hair, feeling his brother going lax under his fingers. Picking up the body was, he went to pour some into his palm when a dripping hand around his wrist stopped him.

"I can wash myself, My." Frowning, Mycroft handed the bottle over.

"Of course." He retreated back to his bedroom, finding his phone and texting Anthea.

The delivery was made before Sherlock had gotten out the bath; underwear, t-shirts, pyjamas and jeans. His coat, shoes and the scarf he'd borrowed off Mycroft and never returned were there too. The note attached told him they had taken anything worth keeping – the violin, a few books, science equipment and the like – from the apartment and put it into storage. The sound of the bathroom door opening indicated that Sherlock had finished, and Mycroft returned to the bedroom. He set the clothes down on the bed and moved to towel off Sherlock's hair. Before he could, Sherlock started himself; hands vigorously scrubbing his scalp. He left the towel around his waist as he pulled on a pair of soft cotton pyjama bottoms and only then did he let it fall to the floor. Clean and changed he looked nervously around the room.

"I just want to sleep, My." The elder nodded and made to leave. "No!" Sherlock paused. "I mean… will you stay?" Mycroft offered a gentle smile, changed into his own sleepwear (cotton trousers and a loose t-shirt from one of his partners at University) and sat up on the bed. Sherlock hesitated for only a second before curling up into Mycroft's lap. He rested his head in his brother's lap, his thumb finding its way into his mouth. It was an old habit that Mycroft had never managed to break, and tonight the elder allowed his little brother the comfort. He waited until he felt the body in his lap relax before talking.

"What happened, Bratik?" Sherlock made an odd questioning noise. "What triggered it tonight?" Sherlock shivered in his lap and curled up tighter. "It's alright." Mycroft's right had was stroking down his brother's side, soothing the tension. "It's alright. I've got you." Sherlock shook his head as best he could, turning his face away.

"You will hate me." His words were barely audible, muttered into Mycroft's knee. Mycroft narrowed his eyes and threaded the fingers of his free hand into Sherlock's hair.

"I won't. I could never hate you." Sherlock shook his head again.

"_I _would hate me." Mycroft's hands didn't stop their motion.

"Just tell me. I won't go anywhere; I'll let you explain." Sherlock shuddered but snuggled back against his brother. Mycroft felt his jaw move, but didn't hear his words. "I can't hear you, Bratik."

Sherlock moved rapidly, like a striking snake; uncurling and sitting up on his brother's lap. With his face buried in the neck in front of his, his voice – despite its quietness – was audible.

"I was thinking." Mycroft's hands settled against Sherlock's hips, holding him steady and running small circles with his thumbs.

"That's not unusual." Sherlock gave a smile that turned into a grimace.

"That's the problem." Sat as he was, Mycroft leant back to look at his brother.

"Too much again?" Sherlock turned away so that he was no longer facing his brother.

"Too much of the wrong thing." A tender hand cupped Sherlock's jaw.

"How so?" Sherlock's entire body tensed, as if he were physically fighting the answer.

"I think things, My, that I shouldn't. I… indulge in imaginings from time to time; it makes it easier to cope with the other cravings." Mycroft frowned again.

"Have you acted upon these imaginings?" Sherlock huffed a derisive laugh.

"No."

"Do you want to?"

"Desperately." Mycroft paused before continuing his questions.

"Are they – would the actions be – illegal?" Sherlock pulled a face.

"Technically, no. Morally reprehensible, yes."

"So long as it doesn't contradict my position in this country, I will stand by you." There was a flicker of something behind Sherlock's eyes before his expression hardened into determination.

"Tell me that once I've done it."

Holding Mycroft's gaze, he leaned in. Slowly, hesitatingly, Sherlock allowed his lips to brush his brother's, drawing back immediately. Only Mycroft's hand at his hip kept him from scrambling out of the room. Sherlock caught his bottom lip between his front teeth, worrying at the skin. As the silence dragged on his cheeks darkened and he tried to turn away. Moving a hand to Sherlock's jaw, Mycroft turned his brother's head back to face him; his thumb reaching to unsnare Sherlock's lip. Their gazes held as Mycroft leant in and captured Sherlock's lips. The younger shifted forward, pressing against his brother until Mycroft allowed the kiss to deepen. When they pulled back, both were breathing heavily. Mycroft smiled.

"I'll stand by you." Sherlock smiled back.

"You take away the addiction." He rested his head in the crook of Mycroft's neck. "I can cope when you're here." Mycroft tangled a hand in Sherlock's hair, rubbing gently.

"Then call me. I'll come; you know I will. Whatever you need from me," he kissed the shell of Sherlock's ear. "Whatever you want. I'm here."


End file.
